Every day a new miracle. The headlines promise salvation in small print—some pill, some habit, some ritual that will buy you five more minutes on the clock.
One day coffee will save your heart, the next it will murder it in its sleep.
If you walk too fast, your arteries rejoice. If you walk too slow, your brain decays.
Tie your shoes the wrong way, and some university department will find an angle to declare you doomed.
The shelves of medical journals groan under the weight of studies no one reads twice. Thousands of researchers churn out thousands of findings because they must. Publish or perish—the priesthood of data chanting for tenure, for funding, for another line on the CV.
The work isn’t always fake, but it isn’t always true either. It’s smoke from a factory that never shuts down.
And what’s the public left with? Fragments. Contradictions. A perpetual news cycle of half-truths and provisional wisdom. You can’t hold it in your head; it slips away by evening.
Yesterday’s miracle is tomorrow’s hazard, and the day after that it’s forgotten altogether.
The real miracles are quieter. They don’t make the front page. They’re the rare studies that stand the test of time, the knowledge that builds slowly, brick by brick, until it becomes something solid. But most of the noise isn’t meant to build; it’s meant to be noticed. Attention is the true currency.
So what’s the point?
Maybe there isn’t one, except to remind ourselves that science is not revelation, but a market—messy, competitive, and full of salesmen.
Every day a new miracle, and most of them are nothing more than confetti in the wind.